


A Lesson Overheard

by stonecoldhedwig



Series: Hinny One Shots [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Harry, Christmas, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Hinny, Mirror Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28156071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldhedwig/pseuds/stonecoldhedwig
Summary: Every time there was a lull in conversation, or when Ginny was in the shower or engrossed in the Daily Prophet, all Harry could think about were the soft sighs she’d made, the way she’d breathed out his name.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Series: Hinny One Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067651
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	A Lesson Overheard

Harry couldn’t stop thinking about her. 

They’d spent Christmas at the Burrow, packed in with the rest of the Weasley clan, and it had been frankly excruciating. Every movement Ginny made about the house had felt like a provocation; the look in her eyes and the smirk on her face _definitely_ was. Harry couldn’t think about anything other than the fact he wanted her, a fire burning in the pit of his stomach that seemed to feed off the endless oxygen of his unquenched lust. God, he wanted her. They’d fooled around a little, of course they had—fumbling hands roaming over one another’s body as they lay on the sofa kissing after everyone else went to bed, or the time Ginny had slipped her hands into his boxers and Harry finished embarrassingly quickly. It was never enough. Frankly, the thought of wanting Ginny was all-consuming. 

Something, though, had made it even worse. It had been the middle of the night, the first evening they’d been alone at Grimmauld Place; they were set to spend New Year there together before Ginny had to go back to Hogwarts. The house was barely recognisable, after Harry’s months of renovations and clearing out in between his testimonies in front of the Wizengamot and his training with the Auror department. Gone were the heavy wallpapers and the dusty drapes, replaced by fresh, clean paint and new carpets and light. It felt less like simply a house, now. It felt like something close to a home. 

Harry had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He loved spending time at the Burrow, but it always involved sleeping on a camp bed in Ron’s room, and that meant Harry didn’t sleep well. Then again, perhaps it had been the thought of Ginny asleep two floors below that had kept him up. Lying in bed at Grimmauld Place with Ginny beside him, Harry had found it easy to slip into a contented sleep. 

He had been woken about midnight by a gentle noise. Ever since the war, and the tent, Harry had been a light sleeper; sometimes, he felt like he wasn’t really sleeping at all, just in some kind of deep state of relaxation, some kind of place just below the surface of consciousness. There it was again—that noise, breathy and light. Harry’s eyes snapped open. He realised after a moment in his sleep-addled state that it was coming from the other side of the bed, where Ginny was lying. Harry had his back to her, and was about to turn over when he heard something that made him pause. 

“ _Harry_ ,” Ginny whispered—only, it wasn’t really a whisper. It was a kind of soft, breathy moan, a rush of a word that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. It was followed by another noise, not a word this time but something else that whispered pleasure, whispered delight, and made Harry strain against the fabric of his boxers. 

He had lain there, listening to her until she finished, until the moment when his name passed her lips again in a gentle cry of ecstasy. Harry thought he’d never heard anything so fucking perfect in all his life, the way that Ginny sounded when she brought herself to climax. They’d fooled around before, of course, but there was never enough time when they were at school, never enough privacy when they were at the Burrow, and Harry was suddenly struck with the fact that all that time and privacy they had craved was theirs at Grimmauld Place. Once he was certain Ginny was asleep, he’d snuck off to the bathroom, finishing the night with one hand gripping the sink and the other in his boxers. 

Now, New Year had come and gone, and they were fast approaching the day when Harry would have to accompany Ginny to Platform 9 3/4 to see her off to Hogwarts again. He didn’t want her to go. Something about the week they’d spent together had felt like the most natural thing in the world: waking up next to Ginny, pouring out a cup of coffee for her to add milk and too-much-sugar to, walking hand-in-hand with her through Diagon Alley before getting a Butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron. He didn’t want her to leave because, for the first time outside of Hogwarts, Harry felt like he belonged. 

That, and the fact he’d not been able to stop thinking about that first night. Every time there was a lull in conversation, or when Ginny was in the shower or engrossed in the Daily Prophet, all Harry could think about were the soft sighs she’d made, the way she’d breathed out his name. It had all but consumed him, and he was almost irritated at himself for the fact he hadn’t done anything about it—hadn’t discussed it with Ginny, hadn’t broached the topic or asked the questions that he was so desperate to know the answers to. 

Two days before Ginny had to go back to Hogwarts, Harry sat on the bed in the master bedroom. Snow fell in the square beyond the window. Ginny was showering, and Harry had got halfway through undressing for bed when he’d been consumed again by the thought of her. He wondered about whether he could open the door to the bathroom and join her in the steam-filled shower, water pounding against their skin. Or, maybe he had time to undo the button on his jeans, to slip his hand into his boxers and seek some relief, all while thinking about—

“That shower is _so_ much better than at the Burrow.” 

Harry was interrupted by Ginny, wandering into the room from the en suite with her towel wrapped around her. She looked beautiful—she always looked beautiful—with her hair still wet and clothed in nothing but the towel that skimmed the middle of her pale, freckle-dappled thighs. She combed her fingers through her damp hair, mentioning something else about the shower that Harry didn’t process. All he could think about was how to get her to make those noises again, to whisper his name in that tone of voice. He had to tell her, he had to. 

“Harry?” She was looking at him expectantly.

“Er—“ Harry cleared his throat. 

“What?” Ginny frowned and walked over to him, studying his face with concern. “What is it?”

Harry took a deep breath. He stared at a patch of carpet near the window and let the words tumble out in one breath. “The other night, I, er… I heard you. I think you thought I was asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you, but you were moaning my name and—“

“Got it.” Ginny’s voice had taken on a strangled quality and Harry looked up to see her face had flushed scarlet red, and her eyes were glassy with what Harry thought looked horribly like tears. There was an excruciating silence before she spoke again. “Sorry.” 

Harry’s eyes went wide and he quickly pushed himself to his feet. “No, no, no,” he blurted, shaking his head, “don’t apologise. That’s not what—I mean, that’s not why I told you.” 

Ginny did not meet his eye. He reached out at ran a finger under her chin until she looked at him, chocolate brown meeting emerald green. Harry’s stomach turned over on itself, just as it always did when she looked at him, and he felt a surge of courage. 

“Would you show me?” he asked. 

“Pardon?”

“I want to see.” 

There was a moment of pause, a heartbeat in which Harry wondered if Ginny wasn’t about rapidly get dressed and go straight back to the Burrow. Then, a soft, almost-smirking smile played at her lips. “You want to watch me?” 

“Well,” Harry blushed, giving her an awkward grin, “I was sort of hoping it could be more of an interactive tutorial.” 

Ginny raised an eyebrow, stepping forward to close the space between them. “Yeah?” she asked, snaking her hands around the back of Harry’s neck and raking her fingers gently through his hair. 

Harry nodded, and bent his head. Their lips met, and Harry let out a small, satisfied sigh of incredulity that he was here, and alive, and kissing Ginny Weasley, and that she’d not just laughed in his face for the fact that he was so desperate for her and yet had no idea what he was doing. 

They pulled apart and Ginny smiled. “C’mere.” She nodded her head towards the ornate gold mirror that stood in the corner of Harry’s bedroom, one of the few pieces from the Black family collection that he’d not hastily shoved into the attic. “Help me move this.”

“Wait, you want to do it now?” 

Ginny glanced at the rising hardness in his jeans and raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t? I’m in my towel, no point getting dressed just to take it off again.” 

Harry laughed, relief loosening the tight grip that fear had around his chest. “Sure,” he nodded, pressing a quick kiss to Ginny’s forehead. 

The pair of them made swift work of the mirror, moving it at Ginny’s direction to a little way away from the blanket box that sat at the foot of Harry’s bed. He wasn’t exactly sure what she was planning, but nervous excitement danced in the low part of his stomach at whatever it was. He trusted her with this—trusted her with all things, but especially with this. 

“Sit.” Ginny gestured to the floor in front of the blanket box. Harry did as she asked, settling himself on the carpet with his knees up to his chest. Ginny rolled her eyes and pushed them apart. “No, you absolute kelpie, like this.” 

Something in Harry’s brain clicked. The mirror. 

_Oh._

Ginny settled herself in between his legs, back pressed to his chest. Harry swallowed. He could smell that floral shampoo she used, the one that clung to his clothes after they’d hugged and stuck to his sheets when she slept next to him, the one that soothed him no matter what. He pressed a soft kiss to Ginny’s temple and wrapped his arms around her. 

“Hi,” he murmured, catching her eye in the mirror. 

“Hi,” Ginny grinned back. It had been the thing they’d said to each other the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, waking up pressed against each other in a bed in Gryffindor Tower. That little word had been like a talisman: _hi, I’m alive. Hi, I’m here. Hi, I still love you_. 

“Gonna show me how to do rude things to you, then?” 

Ginny rolled her eyes good-naturedly at that line and loosened his arms around her. “You’re not going to think they’re rude after this, trust me.” 

Before Harry could respond, Ginny let the towel fall from around her. Mesmerised, Harry stared into their reflection in the mirror, taking her in. Her breasts were pert, teardrop-shaped and utterly, utterly captivating, smattered with freckles. Her nipples went hard at the rush of air replacing the warm towel. Harry wanted to reach out his hands and squeeze them softly between his fingertips, run his hands up to the sharp lines of her collarbones. He wanted to trace his fingers down the plane of her stomach to where he could see a neat line of hair at her centre. Harry wanted to touch, and touch, memorise every dimple and dip beneath the callouses on the ends of his fingers, learn them like a musician learns to find an instrument’s notes. 

“Fuck,” was all Harry was capable of uttering. 

“You can touch me, you know,” said Ginny with a dry, almost sarcastic tone, and Harry had to chuckle. 

“I know, that’s the problem. Not enough hands.” 

Ginny grinned. “C’mon, you’ve touched my boobs enough times, I think we’ve just about mastered that.”

Harry laughed and nodded, pressing another kiss to her cheek as he palmed at Ginny’s breasts, eliciting a soft sigh from her. “God, I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Ginny spread her legs a little wider and Harry felt his jaw go slack. His hands stilled. He’d read the book Ron gave him about failsafe ways to charm witches, but everything in it had been theoretical, cloaked in euphemisms that Harry hadn’t been able to make heads-or-tails of. Sitting there with her, he could only think of flowers; petals and folds of flowers, pink and beautiful. He was caught between the desire to touch, and the yearning to look and look and look, to burn the image of how beautiful she was into the membranes of his mind. 

Ginny’s voice called him to attention. “Do you want me to show you?”

Harry nodded, unable to speak. 

“Here,” Ginny said softly. She took Harry’s wrist in her hand and guided him towards her centre. Harry was certain she’d be able to feel his pulse, feel the way his heartbeat was stuttering with every inch his hand moved closer to her. His fingertips met her flesh and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from letting out a delighted gasp at the heat he felt emanating from her skin. 

“Show me,” Harry urged quietly.

Ginny rested her hand on top of his and began to direct his fingers. Her voice sounded a little unnatural, a little tense. “I like to start slow and gentle.” 

Their hands moved in tandem, ghosting over her outer lips; Harry watched the goosebumps appear on her skin as they did so. Ginny continued, “you have to be less… eager than when you, you know…” 

Harry groaned and momentarily buried his face into her shoulder. “In my defence, I was very stressed from training and you caught me by surprise and—“

“Shut up, Harry,” chuckled Ginny, knocking her head against Harry’s jaw affectionately. She took Harry’s hand a little more in her own and, like a puppeteer directing a marionette, eased Harry’s fingers into her centre. Harry’s breath caught a little in his throat at the sensation, so unlike anything he’d felt before, and wonderful for that. She was so soft and slick beneath his fingertips. He wondered if this was how she’d felt when she was moaning his name, using her own fingers, and the sensation in combination with that thought made Harry grow even harder against the fabric of his jeans. 

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he blurted.

“That’s a good thing, you know.” 

“Yes, thank you,” laughed Harry, “I’m not that inexperienced, I just—“ 

His breath caught even more in his throat then as Ginny pushed one finger a little further between her folds. All thoughts vanished from his mind, save for remembering how her wetness coated his finger, how warm and soft she felt. Harry had been in many life-threatening situations—had damn well died, for goodness sake—and yet he thought that this, this would be the thing that sent him into that great unknown. The sensation of Ginny Weasley’s perfect, beautiful core beneath the pads of his fingers might very well be the thing that finished him off. 

“Just here, once your fingers are wet,” Ginny breathed, guiding him to the top of her slit. “Little circles, just here.” 

“Like this?”

“A little less firm—yeah, there you go.”

He caught her eye in the mirror and a blush crept into his cheeks. Ginny laughed—a high, breathy, nervous sound—and Harry couldn’t help the sheepish grin that split across his face. There was something a little absurd about it, he supposed—the two of them sitting in his bedroom like this, snow falling in the quiet square outside, and the sound of some acoustic Weird Sisters record playing in the background. Then Ginny’s eyes fluttered shut and her mouth formed a perfect O shape and Harry forgot all about the absurdity.

“Oh,” breathed Ginny, her head falling back to rest against his shoulder, “oh, just there.” 

Harry was certain he was doing it wrong, despite the frankly mesmerising noises that Ginny was making. His hand was stiff, angled awkwardly, but he dared not move it in case he did something wrong. In deep concentration, he stared into the mirror at his hand, at the way that Ginny’s chest rose and fell with each movement. After a few moments, the tightness in his hand became unbearable; he simply couldn’t keep holding it as he had been, as pins-and-needles prickled in his fingertips. Harry decided it would be best to pause for a minute. 

Ginny’s eyes opened and she looked at him in the mirror, a hard, incredulous look on her face. “Oh my God, you did not just _stop_.”

Embarrassment flooded Harry’s body and he blushed. “My hand was cramping! Shit, I’m sorry, Gin, I should have—“

“Stop.” Ginny laid her hand over Harry’s. She turned her head to look at him, face-to-face rather than through the mirror. “Stop apologising. We don’t have to keep doing this, we can stop if you want to, if you’re not comfortable.” 

Harry chuckled awkwardly. “I cannot explain to you how much I want to keep doing this. You feel so… I don’t know, so good. I just—I have no idea what I’m doing. Let me watch you first.” 

Ginny took a deep breath. She began to move her fingers, but her actions were stilted, more awkward. After a moment or two, she stopped and sighed. “It’s a lot more intense when you’re just… staring.” 

Harry bent his head to plant a soft kiss against the creamy flesh at her neck. One hand was splayed across her stomach, thumb moving back-and-forth, and he lifted the other to roll one pink, rosebud nipple between his fingers. He kissed the constellation of freckles on Ginny’s shoulder and glanced up at the mirror to catch her eye. 

With a raise of his eyebrows, Harry murmured against her skin, “Better?” 

“Uh-huh,” Ginny nodded, beginning to move her hand again. 

It did not take long. Harry wished it would have taken forever for Ginny to reach the heights of her pleasure; he wanted to stay there, captured in that moment, with Ginny Weasley between his thighs as she brought herself to orgasm with her fingers between her slick folds. 

_“Harry.”_

It wasn’t some great, crashing thing; Ginny didn’t writhe and scream as she climaxed. It was all together more beautiful than that, Harry thought, the way she gasped, her head knocking against his shoulder. He was in some dazzling haze as though he had been the one to orgasm, blinking rapidly so as not to miss a moment of the delicate pink flush that had crept across Ginny’s décolletage, the looseness in her wrist as her hand came to a rest on her thigh. Ginny’s eyes flickered open and she smiled lazily at him, her chest rising and falling as she regained her composure. Harry felt his heart soar, some great, rich energy rising in his chest as their eyes met in the mirror, because how the hell had he got so lucky? Ginny Weasley had just whispered his name as she came and she was looking at him with a gaze that he knew said so many things. It said lust and desire and love all at once. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Harry mumbled against her still-damp hair. “I’m so lucky.”

“Yeah, you are.” Ginny grinned wickedly back at him. “I still can’t believe you just lay there and listened to me the other night.” 

Harry shrugged sheepishly. “I thought it was rude to interrupt.” 

“I don’t know, you’ve seemed quite into rude things tonight. Rudest being the fact you _stopped_ right before I was going to finish. I’m all into edging but you’ve got to warn me first.” 

Harry squeezed the soft flesh at Ginny’s sides in retaliation, making her shriek with laughter and squirm against him. He laughed, shaking his head. “How do you know so much about all this stuff anyway?” 

“You really think we didn’t talk about everything when Hermione stayed in my room at the Burrow?” Ginny laughed. “Cormac was useful if only for the fact that he taught her exactly what she doesn’t like.” 

Harry cringed. “Oh God, don’t tell me that, Gin, she’s like my sister.” 

“I can’t imagine you talked to anyone, did you? Sharing a dorm with my brother and my ex-boyfriend, that must have been really fun. Then again, I cannot imagine how terrible sharing a tent with Ron and Hermione was, either.” 

“Ginevra Weasley, you are so cruel.” 

Ginny giggled, and knotted her fingers through his. He wrapped an arm around her waist, stronger than he’d been back then in the tent and in the battle. His shoulders had filled out more, his hands and forearms become more muscled and powerful. Ginny had delighted in the change in his body, and Harry felt her give a satisfied sigh against him. 

Harry let his fingers trail down Ginny’s stomach, enjoying the way that goosebumps appeared where his fingertips had been. He slipped his hand to Ginny’s inner thigh, just high enough for her to take in a quiet but not imperceptible breath of anticipation, and circled his fingers against her skin. 

“I think,” he said slowly, between warm, open-mouthed kisses against Ginny’s neck, “that I’m ready to try this by myself now.” 

Ginny met his gaze in the mirror, a wicked, tantalising glint in her eye. “C’mon then, Potter,” she whispered, “I think you should get some practice in.” 


End file.
